


When I Call You Mine

by kuwdora



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: AU, Angst, Dark, Established Relationship, M/M, Porn Battle XI, Rape/Non-con Elements, five times fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-31
Updated: 2011-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-27 21:57:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1723856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuwdora/pseuds/kuwdora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Peter and Sylar fuck and one time they don't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I Call You Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Porn Battle XI](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/35812.html) prompt of _[any]_.  
>  No spoilers, decidedly AU at times and there are elements'ish of non-con towards the end.

(1)

Sylar _loved_ the way Peter received his touch with unabated enthusiasm. He was everything rolled up in a package that Sylar shook and tore apart like a Christmas present. The youthful energy of immortality and _power_ roiled off him in waves, giving Sylar him a contact high that made his body and soul spasm with want. It satisfied the need he used to experience when killing and taking on abilities for himself.

There was no need for safe words. They were the better part of equals and would go tit for tat, cock for cock for several rounds. Sometimes when push came to shove—and there would be enough shoving to make them both wonder when foreplay ended and the violence began—they eventually lost interest in actually fucking. Sylar would relent and Peter would take that as a signal to wrap his hand around Sylar’s cock and bring him off and Sylar would return the favor. They’d collapse together on the bed, bruises and carpet burn long healed and Sylar would try to fall asleep but Peter’s tossing and turning would drive him up the wall until he’d kick Peter in the legs. Peter would take the hint and settle so that Sylar could plant his chin near Peter’s shoulder and fall asleep with an arm slung over his chest.

(2)

Sylar thought he was a funny man but Peter wasn’t laughing.

“Peter, Peter Saint Peter,” Sylar whispered in hush tones against his chest. He dragged his lips together in a laugh that made Peter writhe. “Going to let me into your pearly gates?”

Peter wanted to roll his eyes except Sylar had one finger inside, twisting with the promise of more, and his eyes were already in the back of his head. He cleared his throat tried not to laugh.

“I don’t know if you’re on the list,” he said.

“Mmm,” Sylar said, the drawn-out syllable full of deviant intent, pushing the finger in deeper but then he pulled out and ran his fingers teasingly over his cock. The man was downright _evil_. Sylar bit his collarbone, kissed his throat and Peter turned his face away, eyes still shut. “I think you better check to make sure I’m there otherwise this is going to be a boring evening. Unless you’d prefer I blueball you all night.” Sylar’s breathy laugh into his throat made him shiver and he pressed a heavy kiss just shy of his navel. It took Peter’s brain a moment to recognize the biting cold emanating from Sylar’s fingertips as it traced his perineum and curve of his balls.

Peter rose to his elbows and swore.

“Don’t. You. Dare,” he said and pointed at him. He would make Sylar _pay_ if he thought he could get away with even _playfully_ freezing his balls for a laugh. Sylar propped his chin up on his hip smiled.

(3)

Sylar could always feel Peter treading around in his head, leaving footprints behind but only because Peter wanted to leave a mark. Sylar knew Parkman’s gift to be a provocative and intoxicating power but it was also cumbersome wield. Yet Peter had developed a finesse for the ability that kept Sylar on his toes and seething with envy. Peter would vault over the partitions he set up in his mind and explore his past flirtations with vengeance and redemption, surveying it all with a sense of equanimity and remorse. Sylar could only watch with a subdued fascination and horror. Peter would only stay until he had enough leverage to use so he could emotionally blackmail him into helping clean up The Company’s latest debacle.

But there were times that Peter would show up as a phantom image, persistent and wry when Sylar knew that Peter himself was in the building, bored and probably stuck in a meeting with Angela and Bennet. Peter would fucking _toy_ with him from a distance, penetrating the neurological sweet spots of his mind, igniting his arousal, embedding vivid, _lurid_ images that he couldn’t ignore. It forced him to duck into the nearest empty room—sometimes the bathroom stall, sometimes an empty lab that he could lock behind him. He could feel Peter’s hands on him, teasing the zipper and Sylar overdosing on dopamine. At first it was disorienting to jack off with his hand when it felt like it was Peter was giving him the blowjob of his life. Sylar slumped against the door, jerking into his hand, and for all that he knew Peter could actually see his mind go off like mental set of fireworks as he came.

(4)

Peter was a changed man and Sylar was more of an inconvenience than anything else. At least that’s what Peter tried to tell himself. He knew Sylar missed the old him, before the bitterness and cynicism became the norm, but the old Peter wasn’t nearly as capable of getting things done. They had labelled him a terrorist but that’s because he wouldn’t let anyone try to stop him from helping innocent people with abilities escape the authorities. Sylar, on the other hand, was far from innocent but he’d proven himself useful on occasion. Peter had been cornered by Emile Danko and a squad of men when Sylar had shown up, looking for an innocent of his own, and had done Peter the favor of killing the man synonymous with Building 21 and creating a large enough distraction that allowed Peter to escape. He became a little less reluctant to have Sylar around after that.

Sylar had shown up at his safehouse in Atlanta—Peter was never sure how Sylar discovered it—and ponied up a bit of useful information regarding the whereabouts of his brother. He’d even made himself at home, making himself a sandwich and using Peter’s shower before leaving. The months had passed and the flow of information Sylar produced had become a reliable and regular enough thing that it felt natural when Sylar began to tag along with him on his operations.

They’d had a particularly frustrating week of ferrying a family out of the Midwest when Peter came up from the basement and Sylar grabbed him by the elbow and shoved him against the wall. He half expected Sylar to grouse some more about being under appreciated by the _little people_ he was supposed to be helping but instead Sylar kissed him, long and hard and the shock hadn’t worn off when Sylar pulled away.

He blinked and rubbed his lips and Sylar took a step back, lacking his confident swagger. There wasn’t much anymore that could surprise Peter but the feverish intent in Sylar’s eyes definitely threw him for a loop. Peter swallowed, his heart pounding. He knew there were reasons why he shouldn’t encourage him but he couldn’t remember them as he fingered the button on his jeans open. Sylar didn’t miss a beat as he dropped to his knees, fingers clamoring for purchase on his thighs.

(5)

Sylar hesitated to call this a relationship but it was _something_ that he wanted to define. He hesitated though because whenever he’d gotten close to someone or opened up about who he really was, it had ended poorly. His mother, Elle, even Claire had scorned him despite the things they had in common. But things with Peter were different. He and Peter were friends and had come to understand each other and the way they operated, having forged a thread of mutual respect and admiration. They were lovers and had slept together in several positions that Sylar had been embarrassed to say were so new to him that he couldn’t go through with it the first time Peter pushed inside him.

This wasn’t the first time and Peter pressed a heavy kiss on his neck, hand gravitating to his crotch and kneaded him.

He was ready to yield, ready to feel Peter inside him and give himself over completely. Peter met his lips in a kiss that left him reeling and laughed, pressing his forehead to his, hand cupping his cheek. Sylar reclined onto the bed and Peter climbed to straddle him. Sylar’s hands went to Peter’s hips and bucked him forward until Peter was holding himself above his face.

Peter looped his fingers in his hands and his crooked smile faded.

“I’m sorry but it has to be this way,” Peter said and he closed his eyes and squeezed his hands.

Sylar felt like he was in a wind tunnel being ripped apart at the seams. He attempted to knock Peter away he was telekinetically bound. The ensuing migraine was excruciating, unlike anything he’d ever felt or inflicted. Sylar managed to keep his eyes open for a fraction of a second and a blue hue engulfed them, shimmering with intensity. He needed it to stop before it was too late except he could feel the power draining from his body, ability by ability until Peter groaned and the shimmer dissipated.

He was a lifeless husk and Peter uttered another senseless apology but Sylar could read between the lines. This was a moral judgment, Peter thought he had finally stopped him once and for all. Sylar kicked him in the stomach and he landed in a heap on the floor. Sylar shakily got to his feet and clenched his fists. His fingers felt light, hollow and he was filled with same and regret, but he burned with the anger and rage he hadn’t been in touch with for years. Peter kept him at arms distance with the telekinesis but that wouldn’t hold him if he had anything to do about it—and it he _would_ have something to do about it.

“You’re going to regret you didn’t kill me,” Sylar said.


End file.
